Until we are all free, we are none of us free.

Thick February mists cling heavily To the dead earth and to each leafless tree, And closer down upon the hilltops draw, Dull forecasts there of bright, sure-coming spring; Yet the heart gathers hope and strange delight From this dear, unlovely, wished-for sight Of leaden-misted twilights lengthening.

Until we are all free, we are none of us free.

The Jewish problem is as old as history, and assumes in each age a new form. The life or death of millions of human beings hangs upon its solution; its agitation revives the fiercest passions for good and for evil that inflame the human breast.

Still ours the dance, the feast, the glorious Psalm, The mystic lights of emblem, and the Word.

My own curiosity and interest are insatiable.

I am never going to write for the sake of writing.